


Bamboo Bones

by neversaydie



Series: One For My Baby [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Boxing, BDSM, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Complicated Relationships, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, MMA, Mixed Martial Arts, Multi, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Steve Needs a Hug, Subspace, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These places always smell like sweat and blood, and all he can hear through the rumbling noise of the crowd is the slap of skin on skin and the grunt of men pounding on each other. </p><p>It's not like working on a porn set, but sometimes it sounds the same.</p><p>[Sequel to Born to Run]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One For My Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Jen. Love of my life, Steve to my Bucky, cause of all the heartbreak you've been through to read this series.

These places always smell like sweat and blood, and all he can hear through the rumbling noise of the crowd is the slap of skin on skin and the grunt of men pounding on each other.

It's not like working on a porn set, but sometimes it sounds the same.

Bucky keeps his head down on the bench off to the side of the ring, concentrating on wrapping his hands. He wraps the left one twice, because he's been having trouble with his weak wrist in the cold weather they've had recently. His elbow is supported by the wrap-tape the physiotherapist had recommended back in Chicago, and the blue tape stretches the old, thin scars on his forearm almost white. They're almost invisible if you don't know they're there.

There hasn't been a new one made by his own hand in almost six months. Bucky feels like that's an achievement.

His fucked-up arm isn't quite as fucked-up as it used to be, these days. A bigger chunk of his physical problems were psychological than he'd thought, and his arm got a lot better after he got off the heavy medication he'd been taking and actually started to get his head together. Added onto that the physiotherapy he forced himself to get through and the daily training he does on top of it, and his arm isn't half as bad now.

Sure, there are days he still wakes up and can't feel a damn thing, drops his coffee cup and doesn't have the dexterity to pick up a pencil, when he still has to wear his brace and grit his teeth through phantom pains of old injuries, but they're less frequent now. He handles them better, because he doesn't immediately feel like the world is ending when he has one bad day. He'd never say he has full function in his arm, but it's a damn sight better than it was a year ago.

He only has to drop a couple of fights a month because of his arm and that's good enough for him. For now.

"This kid's fast, you think you can keep up?"

Dum Dum is a great trainer, but sometimes a horrible person to have ringside.

"Who is it, Maximoff?" Bucky finally looks up and cranes over Dugan's shoulder to get a look at the kid with the weirdly-dyed hair. "Didn't I already knock his ass out in Jersey?"

"Yeah. And then gave him half your fuckin' prize money for his bus home." Dum Dum rolls his eyes and taps Bucky on the cheek to make him focus. "Do yourself a favour, stop feeling sorry for the fuckin' strays who shouldn't be in the ring in the first place."

"Do yourself a favour and stop touching my fuckin' face." Bucky snipes back, narrowing his eyes until Dum Dum relents and pulls his hand away from his cheek. It still makes him feel safe to know that he's threatening, even in little situations like this.

That's why he'd started training in the first place, because he was sick of feeling small and scared in his own skin. After going to the mixed martial-arts class Clint had recommended, Bucky had sought out something similar when he first left New York. He'd been hesitant at first, afraid to do anything that might start up the fire of rage inside him that he kept so well hidden most of the time. After being kicked out of the class designed for people dealing with PTSD and anger issues, he wondered how the hell he'd cope with a class for regular people.

Then Bucky had actually forced himself to go to a kickboxing class, after he'd been sitting in his motel room for three days and scared to go out in case he wanted to use, and he'd taken to it like a fish to water. He felt focused when he was fighting, powerful and calm in a way nothing else allowed him to feel. It reminded him of Clint showing him how to sweep his house for electronic bugs, slipping through the darkness behind his friend and feeling like he was actually doing something to protect himself.

The fights came later, after he'd come back from travelling to Russia for what turned out to be an extremely tense family visit. He'd run out of money in Boston, and there was no way he was going to call on his friends for help after he'd made it so far on his own. He'd seen the flyer looking for fighters on the side of a phone booth, and in a moment of madness he'd thrown caution to the wind and signed up. It was either that or fuck someone for money, and he promised himself that he'd never do that again.

He wasn't going to ask anyone for help this time, not even Steve.

That was six months ago, and since then Bucky's managed to scrape out a living by fighting for prize money. He's not the greatest in the world, his arm holds him back more than anything else, but he's good at taking a punch without being fazed, hard to knock down, and lethal when he gets an opening. He gets into a calm place in his head when he fights, everything slows down and he might as well be moving twice as fast as anyone else for all the decisions he can make at speed.

Bucky feels like a weapon when he fights. It feels good.

"Rogers, Maximoff, you're up next."

The promoter calls out to Bucky and the skinny kid on the opposite bench, and they both make a gesture of acknowledgement to show him they've heard. Dum Dum helps Bucky tape up the last part of his wrist and watches him curiously as he stands up.

"You ever gonna explain to me why you don't fight under your own name? There something sinister about _Barnes_ that I'm missing?"

"Nope." Bucky's already jogging towards the ring so Dugan can't see the slight flush to his cheeks.

There are some things he can't even explain to himself, let alone anyone else. Once the fight starts, he doesn't have to think about it anymore.

To Bucky's surprise, the Maximoff kid makes it to three rounds. Mostly by being fast enough to get the hell out of Bucky's way when he goes on the offensive, but he's not about to judge tactics. Still, Bucky takes the fight and the winnings, slipping the kid a grin and a little drinking money despite the ferocity of Dugan's eye roll.

Dum Dum gives him a ride back to his apartment through the rain, since he's wiped out from the fight, and Bucky watches the neon lights pass and thinks about how he really hasn't missed the New York weather. He's only been back in the city a week, but his tiny place is already unpacked and looks like he's been there for months. It's not like he has a lot of stuff, he's been living pretty nomadically and besides, he was trained out of thinking he deserved to keep things a long time ago.

So he doesn't keep much, just his gear and some mementos, and of course…

"Koshka?" He calls when he gets through the door, shaking the rain off his short hair and tossing his keys onto the hall table. "C'mon dumbass, if you wanna get fed you'd better be here in one minute."

About fifty-eight seconds later, the little dark-grey cat slinks into the kitchen like she has all the time in the world. Bucky rolls his eyes and scratches behind her ears before he shoves her food bowl at her with his foot. The protein shake he's mixed up for himself is pretty gross, but he doesn't want the unnecessary crap that would make it taste better in his body, not when he feels cleansed after fighting. The cat looks at him incredulously, because yes it's cheap food and she'll just have to deal with that (he explains with more cursing), and eventually settles down to eat.

This describes their relationship perfectly.

"M'going to bed, asshole." Bucky pets her one more time, a tired smile coming over his face when the cat flicks her tail at him dismissively and doesn't even turn around.

He'd always thought he was a dog person, but sometimes life gets in the way of what you think is going to happen.

Bucky flops onto his mattress with a sigh, aching tired deep down to his bones. He hasn't got a bed yet, just the single mattress the apartment came with because the last tenant left it behind. He'll have to get some furniture soon, he supposes, if he's going to stay here for any length of time. He guesses it all depends.

He hasn't found furniture or even been properly grocery shopping yet because he's not sure he's going to stay. When he first got back to New York, Bucky wasn't sure he'd be able to even if he wanted it. Just the smell of the city sparked off a dozen memories the moment he hit the street, and while some of them were good, a lot really weren't. He thinks it'll all depend on how his friends react to him being back, when he finally gets in touch with them. If they don't want him, he'll just disappear back into the ether again like the ghost he is. He's been putting off getting in touch because he's scared they might have moved on without him.

But he has to admit that it's strange to be back in Brooklyn without Steve. Maybe he should change that.

With a yawn, Bucky figures he should check his messages before he passes out. The tablet computer is a nightmare to use when his arm is playing up, but it's small enough to fit in his rucksack and cheap enough to replace if he falls asleep in the bus station and his shit gets stolen again. He only has a couple of emails: there's a fight in Harlem next week that he's invited to enter, Clint is ranting about some dancer from the bar trying to seduce Phil, and Natasha has sent him a link to Russian cat memes again.

He's not sure what makes him check the news, probably just a refusal to give in and close his eyes when there's still traces of adrenaline prickling through his veins. Bucky flips through pages about taxes and congress and celebrity gossip, and then a headline makes him stop dead. All the blood drains from his face at the same moment that tiredness flees from his veins, and his hands start shaking.

His hands haven't shaken for months.

_Porn Mogul Alexander Pierce Found Dead In New York Apartment._


	2. We'll Meet Again

Steve _told_ Sam that this was a bad idea.

Now there's a woman in his apartment with her hand on his leg, and there isn't a single molecule of him that's ready for this.

He and Sam are going to have a talk tomorrow, one of the ones that nobody enjoys.

"So what's college like?"

The woman, Lilian, is perfectly nice. Steve can't fault her for anything, particularly not the way she's probably been holding up the conversation all on her own for most of this date. It's not her fault his well-meaning friend sprang this on him without warning, turning up to the coffee shop they were meeting at and acting like Steve knew about this date in advance. She's pretty, she's nice, but Steve isn't ready for this.

He knows Sam is just trying to give him the push he needs to move on, but Steve doesn't think there's anything to move on from. Yes, it's been a year since Bucky left. Yes, it's been a while since anyone heard from him, emails going unanswered and phone calls dwindling to nothing, but Steve doesn't care. Bucky said he was coming back, so he's coming back.

Even if Steve might be the only one who still believes that.

"It's great." He smiles blandly, feeling like an asshole for not paying enough attention to her. "I mean, it's just an art class. It's not like I'm doing anything super academic."

"You're an artist?" Her hand moves further up his leg and Steve swallows so hard he's sure she can see his Adam's apple bob. "Maybe you could show me some of your stuff."

Her hand moves higher again and Steve tries not to squeak. He's pretty sure that she definitely doesn't mean sketches when she says _stuff_.

"Uh… well, speaking of college I kinda have class in the morning." He does his best to keep his voice from cracking like a teenager, it's been a while since anyone got this close. "And it's nearly midnight, so…"

"Why, what happens at midnight?" Lilian smiles, her teeth like tombstones behind her plush lips, and Steve doesn't think it's a good sign that that's the first image that occurred to him. "You turn into a pumpkin?"

"It's just, I, y'know, class…" Steve stutters as she leans in. He can feel her breath on his cheek. "I, um, Lilian…"

A knock at the door sounds like salvation.

"I should probably get that." He takes the opportunity to hop up from the couch, probably way too fast, and Lilian sighs.

Sam had _promised_ this guy was into girls, despite his ex-boyfriend. She's beginning to think she's ended up on another accidental gay date, it might be time to just give up and move to Tinder.

"Who the hell is at your door at midnight on a Tuesday?" She doesn't try to hide the irritation in her voice, because she's pretty fed up by now.

"My friend works late, he might need a place to crash." Steve explains quickly, heading for the door with no small measure of relief flooding through his chest.

It wouldn't be the first time Clint has crashed on his couch recently, wouldn't even be the fifth. He and Phil have been fighting a lot, Clint working later and later to have an excuse not to drive all the way home. Steve's not sure what they're having problems about, he's too polite to pry, but he's pretty sure that Clint's PTSD symptoms have been getting worse again if the dismantling of his smoke alarm the last time he stayed over is anything to go by.

He hates seeing the most stable couple in his friendship group go through this shit. He remembers what it's like, fighting something invisible that's eating someone you love, and he wouldn't wish the misery on anyone.

The knocking is getting louder now, and Steve just hopes that Clint isn't in the middle of a panic attack or something right outside his door. He hasn't put the latch on, since he'd been mostly coerced into inviting Lilian in for coffee, so he doesn't have to flick anything open before he forces the always-stuck door open.

It's not Clint. For a moment, Steve thinks he's looking at a ghost.

"Bucky?"

That is, until the ghost smiles.

"Steve."

It's like looking at a double exposure, an earlier photograph laid over a new image. Steve can see Bucky the way he was when he left, the way he is in his memory: gaunt and pale with stringy hair hanging around his face and dark circles under his dull, frightened eyes. He's different now, his cheekbones are just as sharp but his colour is better, his hair is short and styled and his eyes are clear. He looks healthy, like he's actually present in his body rather than just a shell.

"Bucky." Steve blinks again, his mouth hanging open dumbly as whatever else he was about to say flees his mind. "You're here."

"Yeah." Bucky smiles nervously, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. The hoodie Steve's pretty sure went missing from his closet more than a year ago. "I, um… I just saw the news and I…" He glances past Steve into the apartment and notices Lilian sitting on the couch, peering towards the door curiously.

His face freezes.

"Are you on a date?" He keeps his expression carefully neutral, almost backing away from the door involuntarily. Of course Steve has moved on, of course he hasn't been sitting around waiting while Bucky went off to be crazy on his own. "I'm sorry. I just, I saw the news and…"

Lilian coughs pointedly from the couch and Bucky looks down at his feet for a second. Right, he's interrupting a date, holding onto something that clearly ended a long time ago. He was so stupid to get in a panic because of some ancient-history headline and run straight here like he still belongs. He doesn't.

"So, um… Yeah. I'm sorry." Bucky rubs a hand across the back of his neck awkwardly, and Steve is still just staring at him. "I dunno why I came here, really. I just. The news. And I—"

Steve cuts him off by pulling him into the tightest hug Bucky thinks he's ever had in his life.

" _Bucky_." Steve just _holds_ him, as close as he possibly can. He feels bone and sinew and the new, lean muscles of his shoulders and lets out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding for months. "You're here."

"I'm here." Bucky slowly brings his arms up and holds Steve just as tightly, resting his forehead on his shoulder.

It feels like coming home.

"I'm gonna… go." Lilian grabs her bag from beside the couch and walks up to the door cautiously, pretty sure this is the ex-boyfriend Sam had mentioned. Just her luck to be here for the big reunion.

Steve pulls himself away from Bucky and smiles apologetically, unable to hide how happy he is about the man in front of him being back in his life.

"Sorry, Lilian. This is—"

"It's fine." She shakes her head and sidles past Bucky awkwardly where he's standing in the doorway. "I had fun, Steve. You should call me sometime."

She walks away before he can tell her that's not going to happen, because she already knows. It's definitely time to move to Tinder and stop listening to Sam Wilson's dating advice.

"So…" Bucky shifts his weight awkwardly when they're alone, because his plan (not that he had one) pretty much ended at the door. He got freaked out and something in him screamed _Steve_ and for once he listened. All his intentions ended at getting here.

"Um, the news?" Steve tries to get a thought in his head that's more than an ear-to-ear grin and _Bucky_ singing through his heart. He's so used to accommodating Bucky's freak-outs that it's still second nature after all this time. "You said you saw something on the news."

There are a million and one questions he wants to ask right now, but he remembers the way Bucky had looked when he opened the door. Something is wrong, and as always his first instinct is to help.

"Oh, yeah. Shit." Bucky shakes his head like he's shaking the cobwebs away and gets that look on his face again. "You should google this, make sure I'm not hallucinating. Have you still got a laptop?"

"Yeah." Steve stands back slightly, making room. "You wanna come in?"

Despite the black panic crawling in the back of his mind, Bucky grins.

He's finally home.


	3. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to your comments, peeps! I read every one and I'll reply to them very soon, promise!

_Porn mogul Alexander Pierce, CEO of adult entertainment conglomerate Hydra Pictures, was found dead in his New York apartment in the early hours of this morning. Reportedly a suicide, Mr Pierce was found with what police suspect to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Investigations are ongoing…_

"Oh."

That's all Bucky says for a long time, sitting back on Steve's couch with his hand over his mouth. Steve glances over at him every so often as he paces anxiously, trying to process the information alongside the shock of having Bucky suddenly _here in his apartment sitting on his couch_ again.

"Why would he kill himself? Maybe he felt guilty, fucking finally." Steve rambles as he paces, trying to get his thoughts together on the subject.

Pierce is dead. The man who hurt Bucky is dead. But he chose to go out after he fought so hard to stay out of jail? It doesn't make any sense.

"But why would he feel guilty? He didn't feel guilty at the trial, he didn't give a shit about how much he hurt you. He didn't give a shit about the torture or the tapes—"

"Stop talking about it." Bucky grits out, like his jaw is locked. Steve startles at the force in his voice, but Bucky doesn't look away or duck his head like he used to. "I haven't thought about it for a long time, I don't want to think about it now."

"Sorry." Steve runs a hand through his hair and looks at Bucky closely, squinting at how different he is despite the fact Steve is actually wearing his contact lenses tonight. He's pretty sure it's not a question of eyesight though.

"You've… changed." He says it cautiously, wary of scaring Bucky right out of his life all over again.

Bucky just shrugs, eyes still glued to the article that's open on Steve's laptop. He's not forthcoming with any details, not that he has been for the last few months. Even before that, Steve had found it hard to swallow Bucky's rehab story when he first went off on his trip to find himself. After being happy to see him at the door, seeing the article confirming Pierce's death seems to have closed off some door he'd tentatively opened up to let Steve in.

He feels the barriers coming up, strong and fortified the way they never were before.

"You didn't write."

"I wrote."

"Recently, I mean."

"I've been busy." Bucky explains, not that it's much of an explanation. Steve frowns at the pale, drawn look on his face, and pauses with anxiety swirling low in his stomach.

"Are you… okay?" He doesn't think there are any signs of Bucky dissociating, checking out like he used to last year, but then it's been a long time. Maybe he doesn't remember Bucky's symptoms as well as he thinks.

Bucky doesn't reply. Growing more concerned, despite the lack of blankness in his eyes and tremor in his limbs, Steve crouches down in front of him and puts a hand on his arm. He always goes to the worst possible conclusion when it comes to Bucky, even now.

"Buck? You—"

"I'm fine, Steve. I'm not an invalid." He yanks his arm away quickly, and Steve can almost still feel the warmth on his fingertips. "I'm just thinking."

"Okay, sorry." Steve tries not to sound snippy when he pulls back, because he's not exactly sure where he and Bucky stand right now.

As for Bucky, his mind is in turmoil. He hadn't anticipated this, when his autopilot had sent him to Steve's doorstep like it was still his own. It's been a long time since anyone looked at him like he was fragile, since someone touched him gently and used that soft, cautious voice that suggested he didn't know what was going on around him. He'd expected to open up his arms to the caring, to feel loved by the concern, but instead he feels like an alley cat that's come in from the cold: unprepared to sit on the couch and act nice.

He feels trapped.

"Look, I'm gonna… I need to…" He gets up from the couch and shifts his weight awkwardly between his feet. Despite his concern, Steve can't help staring at the _body_ he seems to have under the baggy clothes, as much as he can see anyway. There's lean muscle where there used to be bone, and it makes his stomach twitch.

Almost his stomach, anyway. Maybe a little lower.

"You don't have to leave." Steve is hesitant to sound too desperate, knows it'll probably scare him away more, but he only just got Bucky _back_. "I won't touch you again if you don't want me to."

"It's not that." Bucky's jaw clenches slightly, because he knows Steve is trying his best but he's still got that look on his face like Bucky can't handle himself. "I just… I have to be up early tomorrow."

"Okay…" Steve doesn't stand in his way, but he doesn't exactly stop hovering around Bucky all the way to the door. He wants to hold him again, touch him and make sure he's real, but at the moment Bucky's pricklier than a hedgehog and he's pretty sure he'll get spiked if he gets too near.

"I have to feed the cat." Bucky doesn't know why he's piling on excuses, maybe to make himself leave when he feels like he could slip back into the fragile role way too easily. He's come too far to slide back now. "So I gotta go."

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay?" Steve can't help asking, can't help worrying at the set of Bucky's shoulders. He seems almost too calm, it's not the Bucky he remembers. "I mean, this must be a big shock for you and I don't want you to be all on your own if…"

"Steve, I'm fine." Bucky shakes his head and even pulls a tight smile. His skin feels too small, he wants to get out of here. "Honestly. And I'm not on my own, I've got Koshka."

"Koshka?"

"My cat."

"Oh, cool." For some reason it makes Steve feel sad. Bucky has a pet that he cares about (a cat, nonetheless, he'd always thought he was a dog person), and he'd barely been able to look after himself before. There's so much that Steve feels like he just… missed. "What does Koshka mean?"

"Cat." Bucky shrugs. "It's a cat."

"Of course." Steve can't help the tiny smile that twitches on his lips, even though Bucky is looking at him with mild confusion. Some things haven't changed. "But still, I really think you should stay the night, if you want. I don't want you to freak out and –"

"I don't _freak out_ anymore, Steve." Bucky's eyes are hard now, and Steve suddenly realises that all the landmines that he'd tripped when first getting to know Bucky have been set all over again.

"Maybe if you'd written in the last few months then I'd know that." The words spill out before he can stop them, and there's only part of him that immediately wishes he could take them back.

"Fucking excuse me for doing exactly what I said I was going to do." Bucky rolls his eyes and turns away, yanking the door open. "I have my life together now, that's what I went away for."

"So you thought you'd come back and get some revenge, huh?"

Bucky freezes and turns on his heel, bringing himself up to his full height. For a moment, even Steve feels intimidated by the look in his eyes. But he feels so messed up and weird about this new/old Bucky that doesn't fit in the hole he left that he can't keep a lid on the paranoia idea itching at the back of his skull.

"Excuse me?" Bucky's face is a brick wall, cold as ice, and it just makes Steve's hackles rise further.

"You're taking this Pierce thing awfully well." Steve snipes, letting his suspicions squirm their way to the surface. "Are you sure it's a surprise to you?"

"What are you saying?" Bucky's eyes are narrow, already defensive before the words are even out of Steve's mouth.

"You're the one who took a knife into court because you wanted to kill him, that's all I'm saying." Steve freezes when he sees movement in the hall, turning at the same moment Bucky senses someone there and jerks around.

"So, uh, hi." Clint is swaying in the hall, clearly on his way to crash out drunk on Steve's couch. He looks between them both with an incredulous expression. "Y'know, for a reunion… this is kinda awkward."


	4. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days, don't say I never did anything nice for you guys.

Bucky's routine doesn't change, no matter what city he's in.

The self-help books he's lifted from various stores across the country have been pretty united on the opinion that a routine is good for recovery. The books on eating disorders, sobriety without twelve-step, recovering from sexual abuse: they're all pretty clear that doing the same thing every day is a stable foundation for a stable life.

Bucky takes that to heart.

He wakes up in the morning and does crunches until his abs burn. Then he does push-ups until his arms are shaking, unless his shitty arm is acting up in which case he does the exercises his physio approved back in Boston. He doesn't know if they're still appropriate, Boston was months ago, but they were acceptable back then and that's good enough. After that he does squats until he has to sit down, and he takes the opportunity to shove some food in his mouth and drink enough water that he doesn't want to die anymore. He doesn't count his reps when he works out. It's not about numbers, it's about working his muscles until they can't work anymore, making sure he increases his resistance every day.

Dum Dum doesn't know he does these workouts on top of their training, he's just impressed by how quickly Bucky seems to get fitter. But quietly he worries about the fact that Bucky never seems to put on any weight, despite the muscles that get more defined and leaner by the week. He's tried to bring up Bucky's diet, but he just showed his trainer a plan he said he followed and it all checked out, so there's not a lot Dum Dum can do. Whatever he suspects, he has no evidence except the fact Bucky's bones are a little too easy to see underneath the wiry muscle he's built. But some people are just built that way, maybe he's being paranoid.

Bucky's actual diet is… clean. That's how he describes it to himself, anyway. Mostly vegetables (fruit is way too high in sugar) and strategic amounts of protein (boiled chicken, tuna, he's not looking for taste), a few carbs when he needs the energy, before fights or working out. A lot of his nutrition comes from shakes, because otherwise he can't bring himself to fill up his stomach with the amount of food it would take to calorically sustain him.

Sometimes the thick texture of the shakes brings up bad memories and makes him gag and bring them straight back up. He eats over the sink and considers the problem fixed.

He only purges when he eats something bad (ice cream, a doughnut, white rice), because keeping his body clean keeps him calm. He's in control of everything that affects him, keeps himself free of pollution or any influence that he doesn't consent to. He stopped taking any drugs or medication a long time ago (even the anti-anxiety meds that would make his panic attacks stop again), after the trial put him through the wringer and he got hooked on pain pills again. He still wakes up panting, retching at the phantom feeling of needles in his neck and Hydra guys grinning like demons. It probably says something bad about him that this is the only time in his life he hasn't wanted to use.

So no drugs. No booze. No bad food. Nothing he doesn't consent to.

He's in control of himself. As long as he doesn't break any of his rules then he's safe.

A so-called pizza party at Sam and Natasha's place to reconnect with his friends presents a number of opportunities to break his self-imposed rules. He'll have to be careful.

*

"Buck, I think you got it all."

Steve says it quietly, leaning over so only Bucky can hear. Bucky blushes and crumples up the napkin he's been using to blot the grease off his pizza slice for the last ten minutes. It's the first one he's actually taken onto his plate, after stalling on taking one from the box until Natasha shoved it onto him with a pointed smile. Even after all this time, he still knows better than to defy her _polite suggestions_.

"Sorry, this is _not_ how they do pizza in Chicago. I got used to that." Bucky shrugs helplessly and makes his friends laugh. He's got pretty good at this: if he keeps talking then he has an excuse to not actually put anything in his mouth.

"Deep dish, right?" Sam smirks and takes his fourth or fifth slice from one of the boxes, Bucky lost count a while ago. "I just can't get with that shit."

"I dunno, I could handle something thick and meaty in my mouth." Clint wiggles his eyebrows and Steve almost chokes on his pizza because he's cracking up with his mouth full.

Natasha smacks Clint on the back of the head and he turns doleful eyes on her with an exaggerated pout. He's had about as many beers as Sam's had slices of pizza, but again Bucky lost count a while ago. He's usually better at observing people around him, but being with his friends after such a long time apart has thrown him off his game.

He's just happy he's got a bottle of water with a cap on it. He'd lose his mind if he had to keep a watch on his drink as well as navigate everything else. Even around his friends, he can't get over the fear of someone drugging his drink again.

Vigilance and following his rules means safety. Bucky keeps himself safe.

The slice on his plate disappears slowly, only because Bucky feels Natasha's eyes on him throughout the conversation. He gulps water in between bites, trying to wash away the feeling of grease already sticking to his ribs. The water makes it easier when he ducks into the bathroom and sticks his fingers down his throat, brings everything up until he tastes bile.

"All I'm saying is, there's no way he kill—"

"Clint."

Sam pokes him in the side and Clint notices Bucky coming out of the bathroom, so he shuts his mouth. Bucky knows exactly what they're talking about, but he chooses to pretend he's heard nothing and sit back down with a smile.

He's keeping a lid on his anger, he doesn't want to push his friends away the same day he gets them back.

"So, MMA, huh?" Steve has never been subtle when he's trying to change the subject, but Bucky appreciates it. He's angrier these days, more likely to snap at people than he used to be, and he's glad someone diverts the conversation before he can do that.

Plus, Steve is cute when he's trying to be subtle.

"Yeah, MMA. I fight a couple of times a week. Make a decent living out of it too." Bucky smiles sideways at Steve, crooked and cocky. Things are getting better.

Natasha had sent Bucky Steve's new number the morning after he stormed out of his apartment, and since then they've been in contact via text message. There hasn't exactly been an apology, more the silent agreement that they're going to move on from false accusations and defences of steel. They're nowhere near back where they were at the start, but Bucky grins every time Steve's name lights up on his phone and Steve grabs for the buzzing every time Bucky texts him back.

Steve doesn't smother him with questions about his welfare, and Bucky doesn't snipe at him for just being interested. It's getting easier.

"So when are we going to come and see you fight?" Natasha tosses a napkin at Bucky's head with a smile. "I could probably teach you a few moves."

"Yeah? Gonna get me—"

"Hey Buck, I could teach you a few moves too." Clint's voice is a little loose now, a little slurred, and Bucky doesn't a quick recount of beer bottles with raised eyebrows. They know something's really wrong when Clint, Mr Touch-My-Precious-Baby-Phil-And-Die, winks at Bucky with a clear leer in his expression.

"I think you've had enough to drink, pal." Steve warns gently, as Natasha removes the beer bottle dangling limply from Clint's fingers. A glance at his friends' faces tells Bucky this isn't an unusual occurrence, and he wonders just how much he's missed since he went away.

He wonders how many times they looked at him like this, back when he wasn't sober.

"I'm gonna head back, I've gotta be up early." Bucky stands up, seeing an opening he can use as an exit. He's had a good time, but he's starting to reach his polite conversation limit and he's feeling drained. "I'll split a cab if you want Clint, get you home."

"Sure, fine, whatever. Send me away. Assholes." Clint gets to his feet and stumbles, so Bucky reaches out to steady him with concern.

"I'll help you outside." Steve grabs one of Clint's arms and hauls it over his shoulder in what looks like a practiced motion. Bucky's not sure if he practiced on him or Clint.

They say their goodbyes and Bucky doles out more hugs in five minutes than he's given in the last year. His skin is starting to itch at all the contact, but he's still okay to pull a convincing smile. He can decompress when he gets home, let Koshka drape herself over his neck and purr him back to feeling calm. He's not ready to be around people all the time yet, even if they're closer than his own family.

Standing on the kerb waiting for a cab, Bucky digs into the last reserves of his social energy and glances across at Steve sideways.

"You should come and see me fight next week." He blurts out. Maybe if he shows Steve how much he can take care of himself then he'll finally accept it. "Y'know, if you want to."

On the other side of Clint, Steve is watching him with warmth in his eyes. It's as if he knows how much effort Bucky is making to let him back in, to force his walls back down.

"I'd like that." He smiles, just a little, and Bucky could swear he's looking at his lips. "I'd like that a lot. I'll be there."

"God, you guys should just kiss already." Clint whines between them, and Bucky can't even bring himself to roll his eyes.

He's starting to think they should, too.


	5. Boxer

Steve Rogers has been in a porn movie, several of them. He's climbed the Eiffel Tower on a field trip paid for by the Veterans charity that looked after him and his mother for a while after his dad went MIA. He's swum in the ocean and spat off the Empire State building, along with a lot of other shit that people seem to put on their bucket lists. All things considered, he's done a lot.

But going to an amateur MMA tournament, in some shitty basement in the middle of Harlem, is something entirely new.

Bucky meets him outside his apartment and takes him there, explains that his trainer offered them a ride but he prefers to make his own way. Steve is pretty sure that really means something like not wanting your friends to embarrass you in front of each other, but he goes with it. Bucky is laughing with all his teeth when they get off the bus, a story about Steve's first life drawing class in college tickling him enough that Steve's face burns despite his happiness at causing this reaction.

"I was just _surprised_."

"Well yeah, if an eighty year old woman tried to get me to show her a good time I'd have been a little more than _surprised_ , Steve." Bucky cracks up again and suddenly dashes back to the bus before the doors can close.

For a moment, Steve reverts back to his old conditioning and thinks something has triggered Bucky and made him bolt. But when he emerges into the frosty air with his gym bag saved and slung over his shoulder, still laughing, Steve relaxes. Bucky's handwriting has definitely got worse, and it takes both of them to decipher the directions he's scrawled on the back of his hand before they catch sight of someone Bucky knows across the street and jog over, joining another fighter and his coach on the way to the right place.

When they get there, the basement is bigger than Steve had imagined. There's still not much room to move with this many bodies packed into a tight space, with things getting even more cramped to give fighters room to warm up before their matches, but it looks like maybe the place used to be a gym. It's pretty janky, but it looks well-used and there are the tattered remains of decades of prize-match posters flaking off the walls when he looks closely. It seems fitting.

Bucky stands on his toes and periscopes around the room for a minute before he catches sight of someone and grabs Steve's wrist, dragging him through the scrum to a red-haired guy wearing a baseball cap with what looks like military stripes on it.

"Dum Dum." Bucky turns his hat the wrong way round in greeting and the guy rolls his eyes before yanking him into a burly hug. Bucky steps back and jabs his thumb at Steve, who's not exactly _hiding_ behind him, but he's not putting himself forward either. "This is my friend Steve. Steve, this is Tim Dugan, my trainer. But call him Dum Dum, because he is one."

Dum Dum snorts derisively and Bucky smirks at him happily.

"I'm just gonna check in with Peter, back in a sec." He takes off to a group of people a few steps away, and Steve decides to take the initiative. He holds out his hand to Bucky's trainer with a friendly smile, hoping he doesn't come off like a total dork as usual.

"Steve Rogers, good to meet you."

The polite introduction doesn't exactly have the impact he'd expected. He gets his hand shaken, but mostly with mirth.

" _Rogers_? Holy shit." Dugan, who Steve isn't sure he's entirely confident enough to call Dum Dum, laughs with a kind of triumph. "Really?"

"Uh, yeah?" Steve frowns slightly in confusion, and he can see Bucky trying to break away from his conversation with the skinny kid in front of him to try and stall the conversation in its tracks. He's clearly overheard the exclamation of Steve's surname and whatever it refers to, he doesn't want Steve to know about it.

"Well, fuck." Dugan laughs again, this time at Bucky when he comes over with his forehead creased worriedly. "I figured maybe you were a military type or a godamn felon. I never thought you'd be going under that name because you were ma—"

"Shut the fuck up, D." Bucky's face is anxious thunder, and he grabs Steve's arm and pulls him away to introduce him to someone else. Steve's not sure what just happened, what passed between them to make Dugan crack up and Bucky look pale and sheepish, but he's too busy just watching Bucky look like he fits in this environment to be too concerned.

Bucky looks more comfortable than Steve might have ever seen him before. In spite of his size, Steve has never felt like anything more than the skinny kid he used to be when faced with these overtly masculine environments, locker rooms and sports crowds and all the other gatherings that make him want to shrink away. But Bucky, a head shorter than Steve and half the bulk, slips through the crowd like water. He slaps shoulders and punches knuckles and his grin doesn't look forced. He looks like he belongs. It makes Steve so damn happy he could burst.

Then he hears Bucky being called to the ring over the loudspeaker and everything shifts.

"Rogers, Parker. Make your way to the ring. Your fight begins in ten minutes." There's a crackle of static where Steve thinks he might have misheard in the rumble of voices. "Buck Rogers and Peter Parker, ten minutes to ring time."

When Steve looks around in confusion, Bucky is white as a ghost beside him. That's when he realises he really hasn't misheard the voice over the tannoy.

"You…"

"I gotta go." Bucky doesn't let him finish his sentence, cuts him off quickly as he starts hurrying over to his trainer to get his hands wrapped. "Get a good spot, okay? I'll see you after."

There's nothing else for Steve to do but as he's told. He shuffles through the crowd and finds a decent spot to watch the fight, his height giving him an advantage in a crowd as always. Usually he doesn't feel like such a brute, their friends are ex-military or into fitness so he doesn't stand out too much here, but these guys are different.

A lot of them, the ones he can peg for fighters a mile away, look hungry rather than accomplished. Many of them are small, twitchy and eager like they have something to prove, something to fight rather than something to fight for. More than a few have black eyes and stiches, broken noses and ears like cauliflowers, but are still standing there with their hands taped and ready to go to war.

He starts to realise just why Bucky fits in with this crowd so well.

The fight is something to watch, really _something_. The kid, Parker, is tall but skinnier than Bucky and looks like he's only just starting to put muscle onto a gangly frame. He can't be older than twenty-five, might be just out of his teens. When they start off, Bucky seems almost compassionate in his fighting style. He spends more time dodging than landing blows for the first round, more interested in putting on a show and making the kid work for the blows he scores rather than evening things up.

Then Parker lands a shot to Bucky's gut and sends him to his knees in the second round. After that, compassion is a foreign word. Bucky suddenly revs up a gear and brings his kicks into play, and it's like watching a cheetah go after a baby gazelle on the Discovery channel. Parker lasts for two and a half minutes after he pushes Bucky into the red, and most of that is because of a sheer refusal to drop.

The fight ends when Peter doesn't keep his gloves up, boxing 101 for a reason. Bucky sucker-punches the kid square in the face and his nose bursts like a bloody firework. Parker raises his hand to tap out and that's all it takes for Bucky to flip back to the guy Steve knows, holding the back of his taped hand carefully under the kid's nose and waving his trainer over. He lets the referee hold his hand up in victory once Parker's being led off, and his grin seems like it's all for Steve as he catches his eye in the crowd before Dugan is hustling him off to pick up his winnings.

"Seems like you held back for a while there." Steve finds Bucky a little while later, towelling sweat out of his newly-short hair and stowing a wad of cash in his jacket. Bucky looks up with a fat lip and a slight smile, looking exhausted and weirdly calmed all at once.

"His uncle died last week. Kid just lost the guy who raised him. I wasn't gonna humiliate him." Bucky shrugs, unwrapping the bloody tape from his left hand and shoving it into a plastic bag so it doesn't contaminate the rest of his kit. It's only then that Steve realises he punched the kid with his bad hand, held back his full strength and the damage he could have done.

"You busted his nose."

"And he'll feel better when he sees the bruise in the morning. He'll remember to keep his gloves up." He raises his eyebrow at Steve, and once again Steve feels like he's wandered into something he doesn't understand. "He doesn't get a pass because he's grieving, we've all got demons."

"Did you get a pass when you started out?"

"I've never had a pass." Bucky turns back to his kit, shoving things in his bag with a kind of haphazard focus that's just all him. It's so familiar and so not the half-absent Bucky from the end of last year that it makes Steve's chest ache.

"I thought maybe that's why you used Rogers instead of Barnes. So people wouldn't know." He's not sure it's a good idea to bring it up, but it's his godamn name and he thinks he deserves an explanation. Bucky, to his surprise, just gets a flush to his cheeks at the non-question and looks up sheepishly.

"That's not why I use Rogers." He murmurs, and something in drop of his voice makes Steve's mouth suddenly dry.

"I think I need some air." He's not really aware of what he's saying, only that Bucky nods immediately and slings his bag over his shoulder. They're both speaking another language now, words beneath words that make sense only to them.

"I'll come with you." He makes a gesture to Dugan across the room, and then he's pointing Steve out to a fire exit that looks like it hasn't been alarmed for the past fifty years.

They stumble out into the frigid night air unsteadily, almost like they're drunk despite being as stone sober as they've ever been. Bucky takes the first step, letting his bag fall to the floor as he steps forward and cups Steve's face in his callused hands. He swipes his thumb over Steve's cheekbone and it's been so long, so damn long since they shared air that he nearly loses his nerve. Then Steve, the one who always leapt before he looked, is pushing Bucky back into the rough brick wall and closing the gap between them. They're flush together and kissing roughly, like it's that or hypothermia, suffocation, drowning.

Maybe it is.

Everything is almost a blur despite the fact that they want to crystallise this and keep the feeling locked up tight and safe forever. There's shivering from the wall and from touches, and breathless laughs as ticklish necks are discovered all over again. Bucky practically convulses when Steve gets a hand inside his jeans, and Steve pauses for long enough to make him push into his hand, spur him on.

"It's been a while." Bucky explains through swollen lips, and Steve could keep nipping at them until they were nothing but bruise. Nothing but his and nobody else's. "It's okay."

For once, he doesn't second-guess it. It's been just as long for Steve, just as long since he was this close to someone, since he had another heartbeat thumping against his own, and he has to bruise his own lip to keep quiet as Bucky works his pants open.

He lets out a stuttered breath of surprise when Bucky reaches into his back pocket and shoves what feel like ketchup sachets into Steve's hand. He catches onto what they are after a second and raises his eyebrows enough to make Bucky blush.

"I use it to get my fucking arm brace on, shut up." Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves Steve in the shoulder, trying valiantly to pretend he's not embarrassed at being caught with random travel-sized lube in his jeans. "Stop being a pervert and fuck me."

"I can only do one of those at a time." Steve smirks and Bucky tries not to actually punch him in the face, and for a minute Steve forgets every awful thing they went through last year. Things are just so normal, and he's finally got the man he loves back in his arms, and things…

Things are a rosy daydream, until he slips a slick finger inside Bucky and Bucky freezes.

"Buck?" Steve's not so far gone that he doesn't pause immediately, the sudden stillness setting him on edge. He doesn't start asking what's wrong, he knows it won't be appreciated, but he doesn't make any moves until he gets some idea where he stands.

"I'm fine." Bucky breathes after a moment, swallowing hard and blinking himself back with a hesitant smile. "Don't spoil it, Steve. Kiss me."

He's still hard, starts squirming in Steve's hold in that way that made Shield Entertainment damn good money for a few years there, so Steve does as he's told. He kisses Bucky hard and holds him tight, touches him every way he's been dreaming of for the last year. He'll stop if he's told, but if Bucky's okay then there's nothing on heaven or earth that could stop him from finally, finally doing this again after so long apart.

Bucky doesn't complain about being turned around and pushed into the scratching surface of the wall. On the contrary, he's the one whispering encouragement to Steve, telling him to shove him harder, hold him down and fuck him just the way he needs it. He's still sweaty from the fight and he tastes like salt as Steve bites his neck and slides home and Bucky gasps brokenly into the still night air.

Steve's not sure what possesses him to get a hand around Bucky's throat, no pressure but just holding him there to make sure he behaves. Just thinking the words sends heat into his gut, and he remembers Bucky kneeling on the kitchen floor and him making all the decisions, being in control. But when he tries to get too bossy Bucky reaches back and pinches him in the side and tells him to shut up, so maybe they're not there yet.

But Bucky really does love being held still and told he's being _so good_ when he shudders and comes all over the brickwork, and he's sure it's because he's fucked up but he doesn't care. He feels Steve come inside him and doesn't freak out. Very carefully doesn't freak out. Because he's still catching his breath and things are _good_ , they're _good_.

"You didn't use a condom." Is the first thing he says when Steve pulls out and tugs him into a sweaty, hot embrace against the freezing air of the alley. "You're an idiot. You're lucky I'm clean."

"You would have told me if you weren't." Steve mumbles back, pressing kisses into Bucky's hair. And while Bucky wants this, this cuddly thing and the love he can feel radiating off Steve like heat, he's starting to feel prickly again.

"You shouldn't trust people like that, Stevie." He pulls back and leans up to press a kiss to Steve's lips to reassure him when his expression starts to turn into a pout. "Not everyone's as good as you."

"You are." Steve looks like he believes it, and that makes Bucky feel more uncomfortable than anything else.

"Sure." Bucky hitches his jeans up and buckles his belt, looking around for his gym bag and snatching it quickly off the damp ground. He doesn't want Steve to think he's freaking out, he's not, he just has to go. "I gotta get back, Dum Dum's gonna be looking for me."

"Okay." Steve doesn't exactly look happy about it, doing up his pants like he's a little shell shocked by what just happened.

Bucky pauses with his hand on the fire exit, chewing his already-bruised lip for a moment before he comes back and kisses Steve again. It's soft this time, gentle like the promise of something more.

"I'll text you tomorrow." He murmurs, not exactly wanting to walk away but knowing that if he doesn't go now he might actually freak out and scare Steve. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Steve doesn't get it and he's a little hurt by Bucky walking away, but the fact he's making plans and coming back to kiss Steve goodnight… it's the best sign they've had for a while. They're not back together, despite what just happened, but they could be.

When Bucky walks away, Steve has a smile on his face.


	6. In From The Cold

"I don't want a lot for Christmas… There is just one thing I need…"

He hops across to the other ledge when he reaches the corner of the roof. He lands without a scuffle and punches the air in triumph. Still got it. Still got the skills he needs to take care of himself, even in this flabby civilian environment.

"I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree…"

His singing isn't up to much, never was even when Barney would try and get him to hold a drunken tune after hours. And since his hearing was damaged, well, it's not even worth trying unless he's intoxicated. It's cold out here and he can see his breath clouding in the air with every mumbled note. He should go inside, he knows that, but his bottle of whiskey is somewhere by the fire escape and he feels like that would keep him warmer than any blanket.

"I just want you for my own… more than you could ever know…"

He wavers on the spot and wonders for a minute if he can still walk on his hands well enough to do it on the edge of an apartment building. Maybe not, not with his vision a little wobbly from the liquor already. Remembering the bottle again makes him discard the idea in favour of finding it, feeling the burn of swallowing again.

"Make my wish come true… All I want for Christmas is…"

"Clint."

"…You." He spins on one foot and points dramatically at Natasha as he tries brokenly to hold the high note. She arches an eyebrow under her furry hat, bundled up against the cold, and holds out her hand with a delicate sigh.

"Get off the ledge, pteechka."

"My balance is great." He hops down and sticks the landing like a pro, as always. He nearly raises his arms in an Olympic-style gesture of victory, but he resists.

Natasha has a big grey hoodie in her hands and she pulls it over his head without waiting for him to take it from her. It's only then that Clint realises he's cold, that he's only wearing a t-shirt in the freezing air. His very last assignment had been in Siberia, and the cold had snaked through his tactical gear and all the specially-designed clothes he'd been given to keep him alive until he could take the shot, holed up in an empty church for three days with no heat. New York in December is nothing, he can survive.

"You're not even shivering." Natasha manhandles him until he puts his arms through the sleeves and then takes the scarf from around her neck, practical as ever as she dresses him like a child. "We need to get you inside. How long have you been out here?"

"I dunno."

"How many songs have you car-crashed your way through?"

"Most of _A Christmas Gift for You_."

"That's not as bad as it could have been." She sighs and starts to lead him to the fire escape, not bothering to say anything when he snags the half-empty bottle of whiskey he'd discarded somewhere nearby. "Phil called me when you didn't show up for work."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"You told me you used to live here." She doesn't mention that Phil has actually turned on the GPS on Clint's phone on, since he's gone walkabout three times already in the last month. The last thing they need is Clint getting even more paranoid. "Well, you told me about the Thai place downstairs and I followed the shitty singing."

"My singing's great." Clint pouts, finally starting to shiver when he warms up a little as they climb down the fire escape. He knows he had a reason for coming here, but he can't…

The phone call. Someone called him in the middle of the night and hung up. Phil said he'd been dreaming, but Clint knows it really happened. It's exactly what happened in Kosovo all over again. He'd had his personal cell phone, wasn't supposed to take it into the field but Phil was still in hospital and he would have gone nuts if he hadn't been able to check in on his husband-to-be. They'd, his targets, had pinged his location by calling and hanging up, getting a fix on him before they broke into his safe house the night before his mission and –

"Clint." Natasha is touching his shoulder. They're on the street. He thinks it's starting to rain.

"Is Phil mad?" He comes out of what could turn into a flashback slowly, blinking at his friend. Natasha has seen him like this before, his PTSD was so much worse when they first met, and she knows how to handle it.

"He's not mad, he's just worried. You didn't tell him where you were going." She keeps him moving, doesn't let him stop in one spot unless he gets stuck there. "This isn't far from Steve's place, you know. We could head over there for a drink."

"I should… I need to…"

"You need to come with me, Clint. You're perfectly safe and so is Phil, you can call him on the way if you want."

Natasha takes his hand and holds it as she stuffs them both in her pocket, trying to keep as much of him warm as she can. She keeps him moving and keeps him close, making sure she stays between him and anyone else on the sidewalk. Clint has a tendency to violence when he's struggling with his symptoms, and although he's never attacked anyone he didn't think was coming at him first, Natasha isn't going to take a risk she doesn't have to.

"Here." She hands him her phone, breaking him out of the pensive fog that's descended over his expression. "Call Phil. When's the last time you slept?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, so Steve's place is closest. We'll go there and see if we can relax a little." Natasha is a good person to have in a crisis, and Clint feels like he's starting to calm down already. She's so different from anyone he knew in the field, it's impossible for him to mistake her for anyone else.

"Is he gonna mind?"

"No, of course he won't." She promises, squeezing Clint's cold fingers. Even if they show up unannounced in the middle of the night, Steve won't get mad. After what happened with Bucky, he gets it. "He's not busy."

A few blocks away, Steve is busy.

Or he was, before he got too handsy and being _busy_ was suddenly off the table.

"Stop fuckin' doing that!"

"What?" Steve immediately pulls his hands away from Bucky, holding them up in a gesture of submission that's weird when he's still, y'know, _inside him_. "What did I do?"

"You keep getting your damn hands around my neck." Bucky pushes him away until Steve gets the message and rolls off him, flopping onto the bed beside him in defeat. "Choking me and holding me down and shit. Don't do it."

He sits up and starts looking for his clothes straight away. Steve rubs a hand over his eyes with a sigh, because he's still cutting and running every time they do this. This time he gets it, but they've done this plenty without Bucky having a problem. It's not like Bucky ever keeps his clothes off long enough for Steve to get a good look at him naked, but things are fine.

They've been hooking up for a while now, since the alley after the fight broke the dam between them. It's not a relationship, any moves Steve makes to getting it there just seem to put Bucky off even more. He always comes to Steve, Steve hasn't even been to his apartment yet, and it feels like he's being held at arm's length. Bucky values his independence now, and it seems like having someone else in his space is a step too far.

"I'm sorry, I'll stop." Steve apologises, slightly bewildered by the reaction as Bucky tugs his boxers back on. "I thought you liked it."

"I do." Bucky grunts, taking a couple of deep breaths to get himself together because he can't just keep leaving Steve in the dark over this. "I'm just… I'm scared it's gonna make me freak out, okay?"

"Hey, we've handled that before. If you freaked out it wouldn't be—"

"I don't want to _handle it_. I don't want to have to." Bucky picks up his shirt and twists it in his hands rather than pulling it on straight away. "I'm better now, I don't want to feel like that again."

"You're better." Steve doesn't mean to sound as sceptical as he does, because it's not like he doesn't think Bucky is doing better. But the concept of some fixed point of 'better' is exactly what caused them so many problems before.

Bucky just scowls at his tone of voice.

"Yeah, I'm better." He yanks his shirt on so forcefully that it stretches over his sharp spine for a moment. "I don't need you to take over anymore, I can handle being in control of myself."

"I know that." Steve promises, gently. He wishes they were having this conversation in a less charged situation, because he feels like he's finally starting to get an idea of where Bucky stands now. "But just because you don't need it, doesn't mean you can't like it."

"I'm not ready to surrender to someone like that, Steve. I'm not the same person anymore."

"Liking to be dominated doesn't mean you're weak, Buck. You're allowed to like it."

"I don't need your permission." Bucky growls, turning away from him and resting his head in his hands.

"I'm not trying to give it." Steve keeps his voice level, trying to avoid riling Bucky up any more. "You don't like it because of what happened to you. It's not some kind of damage that was done to you, I mean—"

"Just shut up. Please."

"I'm just trying to talk to you, Bucky. I care about you." Steve tries one more time, and it seems to hit a nerve. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I'm just trying to understand why you feel like this."

Bucky sighs, and it sounds like he's wearing down, like he's getting tired enough to listen to Steve. He looks up with an almost tired expression, meeting his eyes.

"It's just, since Sasha…" He trails off, preparing to open up. That is, before there's an insistent knock on the door and his head jerks up like he's been electrocuted.

"Hey, it'll just be—"

"I gotta get out of here." Bucky shakes his head, jumping up to search for his jeans. Steve is reluctant to leave him, but after the second knock he has to go to the door before his elderly neighbour decides to get the cops over here for noise.

"I'm coming." He calls out, pausing at the door before he opens it. He was raised in the city, he doesn't just open his door in the middle of the night. "Who is it?"

"It's Natasha." She doesn't raise her voice, but it carries through the door anyway. From her tone, Steve can already guess what's happening. "I'm here with Clint. We thought we might come in for a drink."

"Uh, sure. One sec, just a sec." Steve ducks back into the bedroom to tell Bucky he doesn't have to go anywhere, but the bed is empty.

The window is open, his curtain billowing out onto the fire escape as all his heat escapes into the cold city night. Bucky didn't even stay to grab his shoes before he took off, and Steve takes only a little comfort in the fact that he never felt the cold as keenly as other people.

Winter always was his season.


	7. Just a Minute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, hi again. I'm so sorry it took so long to update this, I had a block for some reason. 
> 
> Can't promise when the next chapter is coming, but hopefully it won't be too long since I got my motivation back a bit. Thanks for reading and commenting!

Bucky is angry.

Bucky is a ball of fire and rage and he's _allowed_ to be angry. That's what all the books say. He should let himself feel angry about what happened to him, understand that it's okay to feel _anything_ about it. He's allowed to be angry at Sasha for dying before he got his hands on him. He's allowed to be angry at Steve for treating him like he's still the fucked-up shell he was last year.

Is he allowed to be angry at himself for not being a hundred percent over what happened to him? Probably not. But he is.

The insistent _mraaah_ from his feet is the only thing that clues him in to the fact he's having an episode. Koshka buts her head against his leg again, and Bucky finally crumples to sit on the floor, registering his hands shaking dimly from a long way off. He gets locked in his head like this, stuck staring at nothing while his mind is somewhere else. The cat climbs onto his lap and stretches up to rub her face against his, the cold slime of her drool bringing him back to the present with its unpleasantness.

She's no Lucky, but he and Koshka have been travelling together for a while and she's grown about as attached as he thinks she can, so she definitely knows the signs that he's not doing okay. Bucky found her behind a dumpster when he'd just returned from Russia and didn't have the money to stay somewhere for the night. The alley he picked to bunk down in had contained an unfortunately dead litter of kittens, all long gone except the little grey one that mewled at him angrily when he opened the rucksack they'd been dumped in to find the source of the noise.

She bit him and pissed on him when he picked her up to help her. Bucky couldn't leave her after that, because she was perfect.

He slowly comes back to himself from wherever the fuck he'd just been, somewhere red and cold and painful. Bucky doesn't usually lose time, not anymore, but he looks at the clock on the microwave just to check anyway. He's supposed to be training in an hour. He needs to get his head back in one piece.

The cops found him yesterday, knocked on his door for a 'chat'. It turned out they were pretty hell-bent on convincing him that he killed Alexander Pierce.

Bucky's not stupid, he's not fragile anymore, and he's definitely developed a serious distaste for authority since the trial. He tried to explain to the officers, calmly, where he was and what he'd been doing the day he got back to New York, the day Pierce was found dead. They were more interested in finding out if he was still fucked up enough to not remember what he did than listen to anything he was trying to tell them, so he (politely) told them to get the fuck out of his apartment if they didn't have a warrant.

They didn't have one, despite the fact that he's a perfect suspect and if they had any evidence they would have used it, so they left. That should have been a comfort to Bucky. It wasn't.

He's so fucking angry that other people don't trust his mind now, even if _he's_ finally starting to. He's also so fucking angry with Steve that he can't bring himself to reply to his texts, has purposefully avoided the buzzing of his phone all day. He was doing just fucking fine before he started hooking up with his sort-of-not-really-boyfriend again, that must be the root of the problem.

Bucky's episodes had all but disappeared until things with Steve picked up again. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he's regularly having sex again that's triggering him, or if it's the kind of dominant thing Steve keeps pulling when they do. Bucky likes to be dominated, he can just about admit that to himself, but he doesn't know if he's prepared to submit again. Ever again. Especially not since the dreams started back up.

He wakes up every night, hard and sweating after dreaming of Steve holding him down and fucking him. Forcing him to take it just as good as he knows a slut like him can.

It makes Bucky feel sick to his shrunken stomach. He shouldn't be _aroused_ by something like that after what happened to him, after everything he went through. He had no power and no control for so long, the thought of Steve taking over like that shouldn't turn him on. He feels dirty, thick with the grime of his own head betraying him because there _must_ be something wrong with him.

That's why he pushes Steve away whenever he gets a hand around his neck. It's not because he's going to lose it, it's because he _likes_ it. He's trying to put the blame on Steve for pushing the dominant thing, but the truth is that Bucky feels so ashamed of _himself_ that he has to run away from the situation.

He's allowed to be angry, he's _not_ allowed to be fucked up like this.

Times like this are what really test his sobriety these days. Bucky kind of wishes he had a bottle of something strong in his hand right now, because he could do with shutting his head up immediately. But the only thing in his hand is the head of a very insistent cat, her miaowing having died down to quiet _meh meh_ s under constant petting. She's hungry, Bucky realises distantly. He's the one who has to do something about that. Right.

He reaches up to the counter unsteadily and grabs the canned tuna he was about to eat, dumping it onto the tile beside him. Koshka jumps off him immediately to eat it, because he's definitely not as interesting as food that she's usually not allowed. Bucky's lost his appetite anyway, the episodes always leave him feeling sick and drained like he's a wrung-out sponge. He's going to start losing muscle mass if he doesn't keep up his protein intake, but he can't find it in himself to care right now. 

Days like today, Bucky can usually manage to take care of himself or the cat, not both. He cares about the cat more, so it's easier to concentrate on her when he wants to rip his own throat out. Sometimes having something helpless relying on him actually makes him feel like he's worth something, maybe that's how Steve felt about him last year.

No, Steve's too good for that. Bucky's the only fucked up one in their non-relationship.

Bucky's phone buzzes insistently on the counter and he drops his head wearily, bringing his knees up to his chest so he can hide his face. It's probably Dum Dum giving him shit for not making it to training, and the thought of having to explain that he's kind of mentally fucked up sometimes and it stops him from fulfilling his obligations makes Bucky want to curl into a ball and stay there. He's already swimming against the tide and struggling to win fights because his arm fucks up on him, he's afraid that if Dugan finds out about his brain too then he'll lose his trainer on top of everything else.

The phone buzzes again.

Bucky is angry and ashamed of himself and feels guilty for not honouring his commitments at the same time. He slides sideways slowly and rests his cheek on the cold tiled floor, letting his dry eyes slip closed. How the hell could the cops think he killed Pierce when he's this pathetic? He's not capable of murder, he's only just capable of mostly holding his routine together. The second any of it falls then Bucky collapses with it like a house of cards.

God, Bucky doesn't want to have to _handle_ his life anymore, he wants to _live_ it.

He'll just close his eyes for a few minutes, get himself together before he forces himself up and keeps on _handling_ things. He might even call Steve to hook up later and _handle_ that too. He just needs a minute to get his head together and his strength back and then he can _handle_ anything.

Bucky ignores his phone buzzing again and pushes the cold anger coiling in his gut away, forcing his mind to go blank. There's nobody to see his weakness except the cat, he can drop the act and let it show.

Just for a minute, at least.


	8. Frozen

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Dugan actually puts some force behind his fist this time, and the blow catches Bucky hard enough on the edge of his jaw to make him stagger backwards. The dull crack of pain is the first thing that brings him back into himself since he started drifting after his episode yesterday, and he blinks groggily like he just woke up.

"Where are your hands? Do you _want_ to get knocked out?" Dugan is pissed, rightly, because Bucky's boxing like an amateur and not protecting himself at all. There's no way they're going any further today unless that dangerous attitude changes very fast. He's acting like he'd roll over and let himself get choked out if someone got him on the mat.

Today, Bucky would. He's not in a good frame of mind, he'd usually stay away from people when he's like this, but after skipping one training session already this week he felt like he had to show up. He's been feeling like shit since his episode, and today he feels like fighting to lose would be the best thing for him. He thinks of bar fights and booze and he shouldn't be anywhere near a ring right now.

"Yeah, maybe." Bucky mutters petulantly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Dugan's face twists and he turns, raising a hand in defeat as he walks away from his fucked up fighter. "Hey!"

"I'm not training you like this, Barnes. You're a fuckin' danger to yourself." Dugan is already unwrapping his hands, angrily shoving the wraps into his gym bag without bothering to roll them. Bucky trails after him cautiously, it's been a long time since he made his trainer lose his temper and people yelling at him still freaks him out.

"What the fuck is wrong with you since we got to New York?" It's only a few moments of tense silence before Dugan turns around and angrily jabs Bucky in the chest with his finger. Bucky swallows down the spark of panic the touch elicits, because his friend wouldn't really hurt him. "You've always been kinda weird, but I figured everyone has their secrets. That was before whatever's wrong with you started making you put yourself in danger."

"Tim—"

"I'm serious, Bucky. I don't know shit about you, you never talk about anything that happened before you started fighting. Then we get to New York and this fuckin' _husband_ pops up outta nowhere –"

"He's not my husband." Bucky cuts in automatically, the correction making Dugan's already red face darken a shade.

"So why do you fight under his fuckin' name?! Who the fuck are you, seriously? Because you've got some weird history going on in this city, don't think I don't notice. You walk around with a baseball cap on like you think you're gonna get recognised, you barely fuckin' leave your apartment except to train, and you've started this fuckin' self-destructive thing that I'm _not_ dealing with."

"I'm not –"

"Start talking, or I swear to god you're gonna be down a trainer." There's no softness in his voice, not at all, but the volume drops slightly when Dugan gets a look at Bucky's face, the way it looks like all the blood has drained out of it. "Are you in some kinda trouble? You piss off the wrong people or something?"

"No, it's not like that." Bucky looks down at his hands, still in their faded blue wraps, and wishes anything was happening but this. He's not ready to lose his trainer, his friend, the one person in his life who doesn't know how he's been humiliated. "I… I really don't wanna talk about this."

"Well you're gonna have to, because right now I'm not letting you fight until I know what's going on in your fucked-up brain." Dugan sighs heavily through his nose, and Bucky's just glad they're alone in the gym this late at night because his friend has _no_ idea. He doesn't want to be witnessed. "You're not getting back in the ring until I'm convinced you're gonna protect yourself. I'm not letting you kill yourself in there."

 "I wouldn't." Bucky mumbles quietly, but Dugan isn't budging. The realisation that he's going to _have_ to talk about it makes Bucky feel suddenly queasy, and he sits down heavily on the bench beside their bags when his legs threaten to give out under him. "You're not gonna want to train me anymore if I tell you."

"Let me figure that out for myself." Dugan sits down beside him, more curious than angry by now as he asks the question quietly. "Who are you, Bucky?"

There's a long silence before Bucky can force the words out of his mouth, tasting ash and the salty aftertaste of chemicals pushed into his unwilling veins.

"Did you… Have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier?"

Caught off guard by the question, Dugan blinks and has to make himself think about it before he answers.

"Those viral videos, right?" He nods. "That shit was like two girls one cup, couldn't get away from it."

"Did you ever watch them?"

"God no. I don't wanna see some poor guy get raped." Bucky is hit in the gut with the sudden, draining _relief_ that someone he knows hasn't seen him humiliated on camera, but the feeling quickly disappears when Dugan looks at him with wide eyes. "Did you _rape someone_? Jesus Christ –"

"No." Bucky cuts him off hurriedly. When did his hands start shaking? God, he doesn't want to do this. "I… I'm the Winter Soldier. I was."

He can't look at Dugan as he says it, can't look at him for a second of the stunned silence that feels like it stretches forever, like his whole life has been this moment. He remembers feeling like this at the trial, giving evidence in that chair in front of everyone, and Bucky is on the edge of dissociating when the silence is broken by a shocked

" _Jesus_."

"I was a drug addict. They kept me strung out and manipulated until I didn't know which way was up." His voice isn't shaking, he's vaguely surprised to hear, just oddly flat as though he doesn't have any feelings on the subject. "I got out, got sober, told the cops what happened. There was a trial, it was in the news. Nobody got punished and I relapsed. Me and Steve were together, but I was so fucked up it wasn't working. I had to get away from everything that reminded me of what happened. I got clean and started fighting to get the anger out, I didn't think about coming back to New York."

"There are like twenty of those videos." Dugan sounds so shocked, and Bucky almost feels sickly proud that it's now _surprising_ that he'd be a victim.

"Eighteen." He corrects, numbly. "There are eighteen."

"You got raped eighteen times?" The bluntness of the question should sting, but Bucky feels almost calm in the numb centre of himself that he's disappeared into in order to handle this conversation.

"They only filmed it eighteen times." He shrugs, one-shouldered, and doesn't look up until he hears Dugan's breath hitch beside him.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Bucky." There's suddenly a thick arm around his shoulders and Dugan is hugging him like he can't stop himself from doing it. Bucky stiffens up instinctively and his friend lets him go, looking at him with something close to bewilderment in his eyes.

He's looking at Bucky like he's _fragile_ , like he's _broken_ , and that's what snaps Bucky out of the numbness under his skin so fast he feels whiplashed.

"This is exactly why I didn't want to fucking talk about it." He pushes himself up off the bench, starting to pace to work off the sudden adrenaline thrumming through his veins. "Now you think I'm broken, you think there's something _wrong_ with me because of what happened. What someone else _did_ to me. I started fighting because I never wanted anyone to look at me like that again, so nobody could ever _do_ something to me again if I didn't want them to."

"So keep your fuckin' gloves up and don't let them." The statement isn't what Bucky's expecting, and it knocks him out of his rant for long enough to look at Dum Dum and see that the pitying look has vanished, melted away under the heat of his anger. "Because now I'm twice as sure that you're not pulling any self-destructive shit on my watch. Not when you've already made it through enough shit for a lifetime. You keep your gloves up and you fuckin' defend yourself, do you hear me?"

Mutely, Bucky nods. Now he feels his hands start to shake, now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go and the relief that his friend isn't turning his back on him is overwhelming every other thought. Dugan stands up, reaching for his kit and pointing across the gym. He's not pretending the conversation didn't happen, but now he knows the score he's respecting Bucky's wish to not talk about it. Preferably ever again.

"Heavy bag. Go beat the shit outta something until you're calm. Then we're gonna spar, and if you don't defend yourself then you're going the fuck home." Dugan raises his eyebrows at the fact Bucky is still standing there, and Bucky feels his mouth twitch slightly as he goes to work out his aggressions.

"Hey." Dum Dum calls across the gym after a couple of minutes, re-wrapping his hands as he gets Bucky's attention. "You and Steve back together or what?"

"It's complicated." Bucky grunts, breathing hard and feeling better already as his muscles start to wake up.

"Do I look like fuckin' Facebook to you?" Comes the gruff response, and Bucky looks away to hide his tiny smile.

Nothing has changed between them even after the bombshell, he couldn't have hoped for better. His trainer knows about his fucked up head and hasn't dropped him, and Bucky almost feels like that knowledge hasn't hit him yet. The shock of someone in his new life knowing about his old will set in later, but he has Koshka to help him shake through it then.

Maybe he should go over and see Steve. Even if he wants to _talk_ about stuff, he gives better hugs than the cat.


	9. Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge chapter in relation to the others, trying to make up for how fucking long it's been. I have to be in a decent place to write this series and I think we're getting back there now, hopefully it won't be nine years until the next update.

"So… what did he say about it?"

"Nothing." Steve shakes his head and takes a swig of his beer. He doesn't feel the residual guilt over drinking anymore, not like he used to when Bucky was living with him and struggling to stay sober, but alcohol always reminds him of his sort-of-boyfriend because it used to be how his lips tasted. "All I got out of him was 'since Sasha' and then he bolted."

Sam raises his eyebrows sceptically from his spot sprawled out on the other couch, and Steve isn't sure he likes the look on his face all that much.

"What?" He ignores the loud creaking of bedsprings upstairs to shoot Sam a look. Natasha is in the middle of streaming her regular cam show and it sounds like someone shelled out for the good stuff pretty early tonight. She's started to make crazy money since her contract at Shield got revamped, and the house is way beyond Steve's janky little apartment as a result.

It almost makes him consider going back and picking up the Captain America persona again for the cash. Almost.

"It's just… I mean, seriously, he turns up right before the guy shoots himself?" Sam sounds just as sceptical as Steve's guilt does. "It's not _not_ suspicious."

"Nah, I'm not buying it." He gestures with his beer bottle, feeling the need to jump to Bucky's defence despite his own low-key suspicions about the convenient timing of his return. "He's been different since he came back. Like… more in himself. I don't think he'd try and kill the guy."

"Yeah, he's different. All I'm saying is, when someone does what Pierce did to him… I wouldn't blame him if he did it." Sam shrugs, turning back to the baseball game playing on the TV like they're not discussing _murder_ , or anything. Steve sighs and drains his beer, because his friends are still just as fucking weird as they've always been.

His phone rings a few minutes later, and he can hear _speak of the devil_ in his Ma's voice as he picks up. It's a surprise, because Bucky _never_ calls, and he feels the familiar pang of anxiety that something bad has happened before he speaks.

"Hey ba— Buck." He's pretty sure they're not in a _babe_ place yet, not by a mile, but it tries to slip out and make him look stupid anyway. He definitely doesn't imagine Sam's smirk out of the corner of his eye. "What's up?"

"Can we meet up and maybe… talk?" Bucky sounds unsure, and it takes Steve a minute before he blinks in disbelief and answers. Considering how they left things last time they hooked up, it's the last thing he'd expected to hear from his kind-of-boyfriend.

"I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure I just heard Bucky Barnes say he wants to _talk_ about something."

"I mean, we don't have to." The uneasiness just floods into his voice, and Steve immediately regrets the flippancy. "I just—"

"Buck, I'm kidding. Sure we can meet up." He's pretty sure he hears a sound of relief on the other end of the line, but he doesn't say anything about it. That's not his place anymore, he's pretty sure.

They hash out arrangements to talk at Steve's apartment (used to be _theirs_ , but neither one of them can let themselves say that now) today, because Bucky sounds like he doesn't want to wait and Steve doesn't want the sense of foreboding in his gut to ruminate any longer than it has to. He hangs up and fidgets for about two minutes before looking over to find Sam already watching him, waiting for the inevitable.

"You mind if I, uh…"

"Go get your boy." Sam sighs emphatically, flapping his hand in Steve's direction with a face that says he's more sympathetic than he's letting on. "I won't say I told you so if it all goes south. Not straight away."

"What'd I ever do to deserve you, Wilson?" Steve snorts, the glibness settling the butterflies in his stomach just a touch. He doesn't know what he's about to walk into, but at least he knows he'll still have his friends giving him shit when he comes out the other side.

 

Bucky is sitting in Steve's stairwell waiting for him when he gets back to his building. He looks up with a nervous smile, genuinely pleased to see Steve in a way that's always disarming. The first thing he does is wrap his arms around Steve's neck and apologise for taking off last time they hooked up, which throws Steve off even more because he's been so prickly about that kind of affection since he came back. Wanting to talk, wanting to cuddle, it's all more like the Bucky he first got together with than the one that walked away.

Steve gets straight to the point when they get inside and sit down on the couch, because he can't get a read on the way Bucky's acting and he's half-afraid that he's trying to butter him up to tell him something bad. If he's about to take off again… Steve's not sure how he could handle that. Not sure if he would.

"So what made you want to talk about stuff?" He dives in, trying to make it look like he's not bracing himself for the worst. "That's not exactly your usual thing."

"I know, I suck." Bucky smiles tightly as he holds himself rigid where he sits, definitely nervous but keeping a good lid on it from what Steve can see. "I, um. Look, I had to tell my trainer about the whole Winter Soldier thing and he was cool about it. So… it made me think, and I figured maybe it might be not terrible to talk about other shit too."

"Oh, wow." Steve blinks, more than a little taken aback by how matter-of-factly Bucky comes out with such a bombshell. "He was cool about it?"

"Yeah. He didn't start acting like I was gonna break. I think I needed that, 'cause it kinda started feeling like I might for a minute there." He shifts in his seat, tapping as surreptitiously as possible on the sides of his thighs where his hands are planted next to them. Steve recognises the grounding technique, but he's tactful enough not to mention it. "I, uh. Listen, I wasn't being totally honest when I took off the other day. About the whole… being dominated thing."

"Okay." Steve holds in his questions and tries to stay neutral, because he's not sure where this is going or how long he's going to actually get Bucky talking before he cuts and runs again. It's odd to be not-quite-strangers around each other now, not sure how the boundaries work.

"I… The thing is, I didn't make you stop because I think it's gonna freak me out." Bucky is looking squarely at the carpet between his knees, not at Steve, as his face heats up. "It's because I like it. I _really_ want you to dom me again, I feel like I need it, but I… I shouldn't like it after everything that happened. I must be so fucked up to want you to control me like that after… after that. I shouldn't want it, but I can't stop thinking about it."

"Buck—"

"Can I… Can I get this all out in one go? I dunno if I can do it in pieces." Bucky doesn't sound tentative, which surprises Steve because the guy he remembers from last year could hardly stand to give an opinion without making sure nobody was angry with him about it. The fact he's trying to steer the conversation the way he wants to is… it actually makes Steve's heart give a little squeeze, because this is way more like the Bucky he fell in love with all over again.

It seems like his old and new lives colliding wasn't the most terrible thing that could happen. On the contrary, it seems to have brought some kind of clarity that was long-missing through the haze of failing, failing again, and getting back up.

"The other thing is… Look, I want to be with you. You know I love you, I never stopped loving you." Steve did _know_ that, intellectually, but hearing it in the flesh threatens to crack his composure. "But I dunno if I can be in a relationship right now, not living together and being domestic and… I gotta be okay on my own before I can do that, and I'm doing pretty good right now but it feels fragile. I still have to work on it. So… I'd understand if that's not what you want. I'm not gonna try and keep you waiting around for me if you—"

Bucky's rambling attempt to jump on the grenade of his fucked-up head ends abruptly when Steve kisses him. He pushes through the flinch that always comes with being unexpectedly touched and kisses back, melting into Steve because it's so much easier talking with his body than using words. Steve is the one who finally breaks the kiss, pulling back and clearing his throat like he's having to get a hold of himself before they go back to talking like adults about this shit.

"I want to be with you too, Buck. And living together would be too intense right now, I get that. We kinda gotta get to know each other again, y'know?" He tries to stop staring at Bucky's lips and be clear that they're on the same page, because more misunderstandings are the last thing they need. "We can start slow again, build up to everything else."

"And you're okay with the… the other thing?" Bucky smiles, more relieved than he'd expected to be when Steve doesn't want to break up with him. He'd though he'd steeled himself against the possibility, prepared himself for it, but the relief that they're still together is palpable.

"Yeah, I really am." Steve scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, the way he always does when he's embarrassed. It doesn't surprise Bucky that much, because he's the one who started bringing that stuff into their hook-ups again. "I've kinda been researching it since you've been gone and, uh. Yeah, I think I'd like you being… good for me again."

A kind of shiver passes between them at that phrase, and their eyes meet almost shyly before flicking away again. Not yet, not when they've got to figure out how they fit together again before they build that trust back, but when they do…

Steve figures it's a good idea to break the tension now, before he gives into his urge to bite the bottom lip Bucky's currently chewing raw. Not yet.

"So, uh. Guess we gotta start somewhere. You want some coffee?" Steve's smile looks like he's trying to contain himself, and Bucky finds himself smiling back with only a little itchiness creeping across the back of his neck. He's not forcing himself through this contact, if it gets too much then he'll leave and decompress, but right now he doesn't think he'll need to.

"You still drink that gross green tea?" He asks, because that's better for his metabolism and he usually doesn't let himself have coffee because it's not on his diet plan. But as soon as it's offered, Bucky can taste the bitterness on his tongue and feel his mouth start to water involuntarily. If he doesn't drink it now then he'll just obsess over it later, and then… He's made so many big steps in the last couple of days, maybe trying to be a little relaxed about food is okay too. "Actually, fuck it. Coffee's about as close as I can get to mind-altering substances these days."

"Living dangerously." Steve kisses him once more, because he's pretty sure mentioning how proud he is that Bucky's sober is going to go down like a ton of bricks if he's still on the edge of prickly, before he goes to start the coffee pot.

It's not exactly normal, not yet, but it's better than he could have hoped right now.

Smiling softly to himself, Bucky leans back on the couch and blows out a slow breath as the tension leaves his muscles. He actually feels hopeful, just a little warmth in the pit of his stomach, because Steve didn't reject him. He'd been ready to bow out, let Steve find someone who could give him all the things he wants without being fucked up, and the relief of being proved wrong is _great_.

Looking for something to calm the vague jittery feeling of dying adrenaline, he grabs the remote and flicks through a few TV channels on low volume, more than happy with the sound of Steve bustling around with coffee in the background. He settles lazily on _E!_ , because he might have a slight Kardashian problem, and lets his attention wander while Steve curses quietly to himself about spilled coffee grounds. It's not quite domestic enough to make him want to bolt, just enough that his nerves stop singing with the urge to move. That is, until a familiar name bursts through his brain like a gunshot and his eyes snap open from where they'd drifted closed.

The eyes staring back at him are cold as ice and dead as a shark's. Bucky's brain switches to static and he can't look away.

_PORN MOGUL'S STAR-STUDDED FUNERAL GOES AHEAD DESPITE RUMOURS_

By the time Steve walks back in with the coffee a minute later, the damage is already done.

"Buck?" He clocks the ashen tone of Bucky's face and immediately knows something has happened, looking for the source and cursing loudly when he sees Pierce's picture on the TV screen. Every _fucking_ time they catch a break, this asshole fucks it up for them. "Shit, hold on."

Steve fumbles with the remote and turns the TV off as quickly as he can, but the damage is already done. Bucky's entire body is locked up tight and he's started to shake, tremors that won't slow darting through his limbs and his chest ticking brokenly as he fails to take a full breath.

Steve hasn't seen him have a full-blown panic attack since the trial. Shit.

"Hey, it's okay Buck. You're safe." He tries not to panic himself as he crouches in front of Bucky and tries to get him back from his thousand-yard stare. He looks grey, totally checked out to somewhere dangerous. "Bucky, I promise you're safe. He's not here, nothing's gonna hurt you. He's dead, he can't hurt you anymore."

He grabs Bucky's hand where he's digging his fingernails into his opposite wrist, because it hasn't been so long since he saw a panic attack that Steve doesn't know things are serious when he starts hurting himself. The touch seems to bring Bucky back into his head a little, at least, and he sucks in a pained breath, then a second, before he tries to speak.

"Please." Bucky sounds wrung out, choked and desperate as he grabs for Steve and digs his bony fingers into his biceps. "Please. You gotta… I don't care, you gotta fuck me or hurt me and get me outta my head. You gotta make it stop, please. I can't, I can't…"

"Bucky, you're gonna be okay. It's—"

"Please, _please_. I feel like I'm gonna hurt myself and I wanna use and I can't…" Bucky shivers and pushes his face into Steve's neck, shallow breaths harsh against his pulse. " _Steve_."

"Where are your meds, Buck?" Steve tries to get through to him again, honestly scared to death by the panicked babbling. He'd blanked out what it felt like to witness this, the visceral fear, but it all comes screaming back now. "Your anxiety meds, you got them on you?"

"Don't take any, no more drugs." Bucky gasps, the death grip of his fingers starting to hurt as he clings onto Steve for dear life. Steve only just manages not to curse aloud, because the only way they'd managed to deal with this that _worked_ before was Bucky taking his medication. If he's not taking it anymore then Steve has no idea what the fuck to do. "Please, please Steve, you gotta make it stop. M'gonna die, m'gonna have a heart attack. I can't—"

Well, he can think of one thing that might work. It's a fucking long shot and it might do more harm than good, but he's got Bucky begging and terrified and Steve needs to do something _now_.

"It's okay, baby. I got you." Steve takes a deep breath and sits down on the couch to pull Bucky into his arms, holding him firmly and trying to make it seem like he knows what he's doing. "I can take over, okay? Just let go and let me do the thinking."

This might be a terrible fucking idea, but the situation is urgent and his actions seem to make Bucky pause, break into whatever spiral his head is in.

"But you gotta… I need…"

"Who's gonna decide what you need?" Steve settles his hand on the back of Bucky's neck and squeezes, just a hair. Loose enough that Bucky could break away without a second of effort, but tight enough that he's _there_. This is how they did it before, and he swallows his fear to try and be in control right now.

"I… You. You decide." Bucky shudders under the grip and then goes slack, giving in and letting his walls drop. Steve knows how he gets when he panics, how he wants to get out of his head by any means necessary, and he's not going to let it be destructive. Not this time, not on his watch.

"If you say stop, I'll stop. I promise." He tries to sound level and calm, just praying this works. "Nothing's gonna get through me, okay? You're safe, I got you."

"Please." It sounds like letting go, surrendering in spite of everything. Steve presses a kiss to his hair and Bucky shudders out a short sigh, like he's been given permission to crumble because someone else will hold him together.

"Listen to me, okay?" Steve waits for the jerky nod before he continues, keeping his voice low and as confident as he can make it. He has no idea what the hell he's doing here, but he's going to try his best to give Bucky what he needs. "I'm not gonna hurt you, because you're my good boy. You're so good and you haven't done anything you gotta be hurt over. That's all you gotta do, you just need to be good for me. You got that?"

"Yeah." Bucky already sounds hazy even though his breath is still short. Like he's slipping under, like he needs this so badly that all it takes is a little push to get him going down. Steve takes that as a good sign and keeps up his murmur of instructions, getting Bucky to slow his breathing down and praising him every time he follows the tiniest command.

"There you go, baby. That's it." Steve keeps his hand reassuringly tight on the back of Bucky's neck, the other making slow circles on his back in time with the deep breaths he's trying to get him to take. "You're being so good for me. So good. You're perfect."

Bucky slowly calms under the praise and the gentle touch, the confidence in Steve's movements and the certainty with which he shushes him if he starts to get worked up again. It's enough to take him down from panic, which is enough for Steve to keep going until he's completely settled. He can't be hurting Bucky like this, right?

Once Bucky's breathing deep and even against his neck, Steve gropes blindly for his phone sitting on the arm of the couch. Bucky makes a soft sound of protest when he's jostled, but he's deep enough under that a slight squeeze to the nape of his neck settles him back down again. They didn't do this a lot, only dabbled before Bucky left to figure himself out, but even back then Bucky went down easy. Never as a way out of panic, though, and that's what's making Steve worry. This feels like flying blind all over again though, and Steve's concerned that the Bucky who comes out of subspace might not be as amicable as the one who needed to go into it.

So he texts Natasha, because who better to ask about this shit than a professional dominatrix?

_I think I need your help._


End file.
